


Testing the Waters

by Anonymous



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Purple Prose, Reader-Insert, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23583082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: One thing leads to another, and he needs it maybe more than you do.
Relationships: Heartman (Death Stranding)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39
Collections: Anonymous





	Testing the Waters

“Bâtard-Montrachet. It's a Chardonnay, from Burgundy. Have you ever tried a white Burgundy?"

You shake your head. You can’t even remember the last time you got to drink wine. Heartman could be offering you moonshine and you’d gladly accept it.

The whole situation feels surreal. You’d stopped by his lab on your way back from Mountain Knot, just to make use of his spa – and by sheer coincidence, he’d been out roaming the balcony of the lab himself, in a hilariously fluffy dressing gown. He’d insisted you come inside to dry off properly, and you hadn’t quite managed to leave yet… not that you were complaining.

“This is better than being stuck at HQ for the inauguration though, I’ll definitely give you that.”

Heartman, who had up until this point been half-draped over the sofa, sits up, flapping his free hand in excitement. “Yes! I remember that. It was so good to finally meet you face to face.” He tilts his chin up slightly, an impish smile curling around his mouth. “You must have thought I was simply the most handsome person there.”

You snort, not at the suggestion, but at his ridiculous composure. Is he… flirting with you?

“Oh, come on, at least pretend!” He chides, though he’s smiling properly now.

“I thought you were very… charming,” you say, lightly putting a hand on his thigh. You keep your hand in place just a little longer than necessary, though you’re not feeling quite bold enough to leave it there. Not that you haven’t thought about it – he’s in his signature blue suit, and now that you’ve got him up close it hasn’t escaped your notice just how well-fitted it is. The slight sheen of the fabric means it reflects the light in ways that are _very_ interesting.

The real first thought you had upon seeing Heartman for the first time was that he was so much _taller_ than you expected, and his charm was more a result of his endearing awkwardness – but that didn’t sound quite as flattering. Heartman sees right through you, laughing at your comment. The sound is a bright cadence in the measured stillness of the lab.

“Charming? Now I know you’re lying.” He stands up and walks over to the desk at the side of the room, leans over to refill his glass, and gestures to yours with the bottle. You accept, grateful for the chance to enjoy something that was considered such a rarity now. Without thinking, you spring to your feet, and he’s taken by surprise when he turns back around, breaking into an amused smile. It’s a rare, toothy grin, but to see his face light up is worth the slight embarrassment.

Something had changed in Heartman, recently. He was more _present_. Of course, a lot of things had changed recently – not least the end of the Timefall – but in Heartman, particularly, something seemed to have reignited that had been dormant for a long time. Now he was more talkative than ever, to the point where he was getting a reputation among porters, preppers and researchers alike. _Homo loquens_ indeed. He and you had spent many long evenings exchanging comm links and messages, talking about anything, everything, nothing.

You sigh as he refills your glass. “God, this is nice. It almost reminds me of –” You pause. You stare at the drink in your hand, not sure if you should continue. Heartman tilts his head to one side, attentive.

“This is like… before the Death Stranding. Before everything that happened. Just relaxing, talking, drinking. It’s like… nobody even does this anymore. At least… not like this.”

Heartman nods, his face still for a moment. “I know.” His head is slightly bowed and you can’t fully make out his expression.

“That’s why it’s important.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder as he says it, and you make no move to stop him. You find yourself leaning forward, as if pulled in by his gravity. He sweeps you into a hug. His height means that he has to lean down to do so, and he almost manages to scoop you up in his arms. He leans his head into your shoulder, his face warm against your neck, and squeezes you, hard. You stand up on your tiptoes, digging your fingers into his back. You want so badly to hold him like this for a long, long time. Only, his AED is pressing into your chest, quite uncomfortably. You let him go, not wanting to make it awkward, glancing down at the yellow box before looking back up at him – but not before he notices.

“I do hate being tethered to this thing sometimes.” Heartman looks down at the AED, running a thumb along one of the ridges at the top. 

Suddenly, the steady beeping of the heart monitor across the room falters. Heartman crumples, curling in on himself as he turns away. You’re not sure what to do. You’re used to his usual chatty self, or at least when he flatlined you didn’t have to make conversation. This, however, was something you weren’t prepared for.

“Are you okay? Should I… can I help?”

“Fine. Just a bit out of breath,” he says. His face says otherwise.

You take a few steps towards him, gingerly, not wanting to agitate him further, but unable to stop yourself. “Listen, if there’s something wrong…”

He shakes his head, sighs, and then does something you’ve never seen before – he reaches up to his shoulder and unfastens the strap of the AED. He pulls the whole thing off, setting it down on the desk next to him. The thin wires snaking out from the collar of his shirt stay put, but it’s odd to see him without his usual yellow box. You hover hesitantly beside him, trying to get a read on him. He seems to be lost in thought for a moment, gazing at the vista out of the window while one hand absent-mindedly adjusts something under his shirt.

“V-tach,” he mutters, before glancing at you with a slight turn of his head. “Ventricular tachycardia. It happens sometimes, it’s not new. Just a heart palpitation. Fairly minor.”

“It didn’t _sound_ minor,” you respond. You get the feeling he’s trying to downplay it, but you don’t know enough to challenge him.

“It’s fine, I promise. It just… _hurts_.” He pauses. “At least, more than usual,” he mutters. He lowers himself down onto the edge of the armrest, reaches inside his suit and pulls out a small vial. There are a number of round orange tablets inside, and he plucks a couple out. Looking around briefly, his eyes rest on his half-finished glass of wine before reaching for it, and you realise what he’s doing.

“Are – are you sure that’s a good idea?” You ask. _That wine probably isn’t helping your heart condition, you know_. That’s what you want to say – but you leave it for now. You don’t want to risk needling him. He flashes you a thin-lipped smile from behind the glass before he drains it, swallowing the tablets as he does so, before placing the empty glass delicately back on the table.

“I’m sorry.” He says. “I didn’t mean to worry you. Truly.” He holds out a hand. You walk over to him and lean forward to take it, thinking he wants to be helped up, but instead he pulls you towards him gently, taking his other hand and resting it lightly on top of yours.

“Your concern is… touching. Thank you.”

He gazes up at you, and for a moment you’re transfixed by those bright, soulful eyes. His knee is resting almost imperceptibly against yours as his fingers play over the back of your hand. Unable to help yourself, your gaze drifts down to the delicate curve of his mouth, the gentle pout of his lips - something you’d found yourself thinking of too often when alone… it would be so easy to just take his face in your hands and… you feel yourself flushing, and it’s not the wine. Quickly, you look away, hoping he hasn’t noticed.

“Why don’t you lie down?” You suggest, gesturing to the seating. “You _are_ allowed to take a break, you know. I won’t take offence.”

“No, no, you’re my guest, I can’t just–”

“Oh, just do it!” You blurt out, though not unkindly. The wine is making you bolder than usual, apparently. He almost freezes in place, and for a second you fear you might have gone too far. Then, slowly, he tilts his head to one side, and his expression softens.

“Well…” he says, raising an eyebrow slightly, “If you… _insist_.”

To your surprise, he actually takes your advice, and even makes a big show of shrugging off his suit jacket and unfastening his Cufflink before sliding down onto the cushions. Satisfied, you turn towards the view of the mountains, content to finish your drink as you take the opportunity to steady yourself. It isn’t long before a comfortable silence settles between you. You stay standing for the moment, staring out the window at the sunset, losing yourself in the wash of yellows and pinks that skim along the mountain vista. There are certainly worse ways to spend an evening, you think, smiling to yourself as the snow outside continues to fall undisturbed.

Breaking the silence, Heartman’s monitor makes another of its regular announcements. “Five minutes remaining.” You turn to check on him, watching for a reaction.

Heartman stays immobile, his head on the armrest. His eyes are closed again, his lashes casting long shadows over his face in the low light. The stillness of the lab is complete, with only the accompaniment of the heart monitor punctuating the silence. He lies absolutely still, save for the slight rise and fall of his chest. A few dust particles catch the light from the windows and it occurs to you how perfectly bathed he is in the embers of the slow dusk. The saturated pink glow glances over the crests and peaks of his body while dark shadows pool in the crevices. Your heart aches just to look at him – he’s a work of art without even trying.

He raises his hands and grips the glove of his right hand with his left, pulling it off. He does the same with the other. With a couple of brisk flicks, the gloves land at his feet. He flexes his long, dextrous fingers in the rosy light, apparently fascinated with the way the light plays with the structures of his hands. It’s as if he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. Eventually he slips a pale hand beneath the collar of his shirt, where it comes to rest over his heart.

You sit down carefully next to him, and your hip brushes against his waist. You try not to dwell on the sensation and instead you surreptitiously look over to see how he is. To your surprise, you see his wide, ocean-blue eyes staring back at you. His signature glasses are dangling at his side, skimming across the padded floor in one slack hand. Without them his face is softer-looking, more vulnerable without the usual steel frames. His other hand is absent-mindedly running through his hair.

Deliberately, you lean forward and brush away a stray lock with your fingers, gently skimming over the freckles at his hairline. He doesn’t protest. You take a chance and move your hand down around the arch of his brow and cheekbone before coming to a pause at the corner of his mouth. Cupping his face with the rest of your hand, you take your thumb and trace the peak of his upper lip, skimming over it before stroking the soft lower one with just the slightest of pressure. As you do, you feel his mouth part slightly, yielding.

The tiny gesture catches you off-guard. Your eyes flick back up to meet his, and you feel a deep thrill as you are met with a pleading gaze. It’s almost too much – if you don’t stop now you don’t know if you’ll be able to hold back. You start to draw your hand away, but he rises to follow. For a moment, you both hesitate. His eyes are darkening. Your hand lingers at his jawline, your thumb resting in the subtle cleft of his chin for the briefest of moments before you pull away.

Neither of you have said a word, and the quiet of the lab means that every other sound seems to echo in comparison. You find yourself noticing the beep of the cardiac monitor again, and initially you freeze, remembering earlier. Heartman lets out a quiet laugh, and you look down at him in confusion for a moment before realising it’s just a spike in his heart rate. You smile a little with the realisation. He sits up slightly, leaning on his elbows, a sheepish smile of his own curling the corners of his mouth as he bows his head. Wordlessly, he takes your hand in his, guiding it to his chest. You hesitate.

“It’s okay,” he says, speaking for the first time in minutes. “I know my limits.”

As your fingers touch his bare skin, you feel a shiver run through you, as if the electricity from his heart is flowing up into your own body. Your thumb comes to rest on a ridge of scar tissue, and you pull down at the opening of his shirt, taking in the sight before you: his delicate chest, marked by a long, white line, framed by two clinical, ever-present electrodes. Despite his openness with others, this was something kept guarded. You look up, and this time you’re met with a deliberate, steady gaze. He’s testing you. You can feel his heartbeat steadying under your palm, and a flush of emotion rises in you again, your own heart aching in sympathy with his. You run your thumb along the scar, taking your other hand and teasing it under the collar of his shirt on the other side, pulling it fully open to show the electrode sat below the collarbone. His own gaze remains unbroken on you. He’s watching for your reaction, while simultaneously giving nothing away himself.

Finally, he tilts his head to one side slightly, sighs quietly, and relaxes. His long, slender fingers stroke the back of your hand again, so lightly that anyone else probably wouldn’t even notice the gesture. To you, however, it ignites a flush of desire that ripples through you. There’s no mistaking this for mere affection. He leans back slightly, and this time you follow, accepting the invitation. You move your position from resting against his waist to kneeling over him, gently setting yourself in his lap. Taking your hand away from his chest, you place it on the armrest next to his head as he gazes up at you, lips parted. You lean down and kiss him.

At first, it’s barely more than your lips touching, and you hold your mouth over his, lingering. Teasing. Then you finally oblige. You kiss him gently, holding for a few seconds. When you pull back you hear a whisper of a moan. The sound sends a shiver of anticipation rolling through your core. You lean into him and kiss him properly this time, and he reciprocates – deliberate, deep and slow. His mouth is firm, questing, but gentle in response, and tastes sweet from the wine. His earnestness takes you by surprise. He’s not letting you go this time as he explores, dextrous and eager.

There’s a rhythm now as you press your body against his, pulling him into you and holding him with each kiss. He does the same, matching your movements with his own. He fumbles briefly at your back, but you allow a hand to come to rest at the nape of your neck as he kisses you again. You run a hand down his flank, fingers pulling at the soft shirt, feeling his warm body beneath. The muscles in his torso quiver involuntarily at your touch, and you teasingly dig your fingers into his waist. You hear a muted sound in his throat as he breaks the kiss – something between a laugh and a sigh. You squeeze again, gently, and he melts under your touch, pressing himself against you with needy desire, and you shiver in delight at the sensation, leaning in to kiss him again as your bodies find each other.

Each time you pull away, you can hear his breath getting more ragged. Now you try leaning your full weight into him, pushing your hips down and sliding your thigh right up between his. He resists for a second, unsure, but then he yields, and his hands loosen their grip slightly as his focus shifts. Eager now, he opens up rather than pulling you in. It’s an unspoken request, and you oblige. Your face is against his, your breathing heavy in his ear. He raises his hips slightly as you lean into him further, and you can feel now just how hard he is. And there’s a _lot_ of him to feel, pressed against the inside of your thigh. It’s your own heartbeat that speeds up this time as you realise the rumours _are_ true.

You move your hands down, skimming over his waist and coming to rest on his belt. You unhook the buckle with two quick tugs, feeling the needy buck of his hips under your hands as you do. How long has it been since someone touched him like this? For added flair, you place your hand flat on his stomach, and then with your other pull the rest of the belt out in one fluid motion. You loop it in your hand, holding it aloft. He tenses under you, and you bring the belt down, skimming it under his chin before throwing it to the floor. Not right now. Later, maybe.

You lean down further into him, feeling his hard-on straining through the fabric of his clothes, and he throws his head back against the armrest, eyes closed, and utters a noise halfway between a whine and moan. You look at him pinned beneath you, writhing with barely contained delight, and you realise this is a look you like on him very much. All at once your thoughts are rushing towards the idea that you need to possess every inch of him. You can’t just have him against you, or under you – it’s not enough. You need him inside you.

The moment is interrupted by an automated announcement: _One Minute remaining._ A pained expression crosses Heartman’s face and he lets out a quiet, exasperated moan. “Three minutes,” he whispers, and rests a hand softly on yours. “Can you stay?” You pause, unsure what exactly he’s asking, but he holds your gaze. He leans forward, the fingers of his other hand grazing the back of your neck again as he whispers into your ear, his lips agonizingly close to your skin.

“Upstairs… first left. If you… want to stay.” Now his meaning is clear. Wordlessly, you nod, and place your hand on his, interlacing your fingers for a brief moment before pulling your hand away. You flash him a small smile as you stand. You turn to leave, unsure at first, but when you turn back to look at Heartman you see he hasn’t moved. One arm is thrown over his eyes, the other hangs down by his side, fingers caressing the padded floor. Where he goes, you can’t follow. But you’ll be waiting when he comes back. You turn away and follow his directions, creeping softly up the padded stairs, already pulling your clothes off with feverish anticipation.

Heartman’s bedroom is somehow everything you expected and nothing like what you’d imagined. Unlike the purple-blue coolness of the lab, his bedroom is awash in an intense red glow. Even the bedding is red. You take the liberty of draping your clothes over a chair in the corner, and slide yourself onto the mattress. Satin sheets – no luxury spared. You can smell his scent, if only faintly. It’s fresh, and earthy, like the smell after rain. You glide your fingers over the cool satin, feeling the material slide beneath you.

Around you, suddenly, the lighting changes, signalling Heartman’s return. The forlorn scarlet aura gives way to a softer orange glow, though the rich décor still colours the room enough. A shiver rolls through you, your body betraying your desires already. There’s no sign of him, though. Did you dream what just happened? Maybe he isn’t coming. Well, if that’s the case, you might as well get what you came for… you slide a hand between your legs, lazily stroking yourself as you replay the scene of him lying in the lab, eyes wide and pleading, breath coming in short, shaky gasps, his mouth meeting with yours, hands cupped around your…

“Surely you don’t mean to start without me?”

You jolt upright to see Heartman standing in the doorway. The padded floor means he’s been able to walk right up here without you realising. He’s leant against the frame, shadowed in the dim light. There’s enough to illuminate his outline, though, as he watches with quiet intent, one hand at his face as his fingers play around his mouth. He’s standing at the threshold like a vampire, as if waiting for an invitation to come in to his own room. You sit up fully, rolling your shoulders back, and sweep one leg to the side. 

Apparently, it’s enough to sway him. He enters, softly, walking round to the edge of the bed. You turn to meet him, draping your legs over the edge of the mattress, letting your toes graze the floor. He has a robe on, but this isn’t the dressing gown from before. It’s dark blue, made from a thin cotton, and leaves little to the imagination. To your surprise, there’s no sign of the AED. As he leans forward and it falls open to the waist, you realise he _only_ has the robe on. You raise a hand to his chest, completely bare now, and try to give voice to the concern fluttering in your throat, managing only to stutter a wordless exclamation. 

He lowers himself onto his knees before you. He takes one hand and slides in between your legs, and you part them, allowing him to caress the inside of your thigh with a hand that is achingly soft. He kisses you there, pressing into the warm, sensitive skin for a moment before he relents, opening his eyes and raising his gaze to meet yours, his head still resting against you. You can feel the soft brush of his hair against your skin and the slow, warm rhythm of his breath in between your legs, and you feel yourself quivering against him. 

“Twenty minutes,” he whispers. “Please, give me that much.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak. Instead you pull yourself backwards onto the bed, tucking your legs under you, and look at him to follow, which he does, pulling himself up to sit on the edge of the mattress. You take a deep breath. Well, if he wants to play, you’re happy to oblige.

You push him roughly onto the bed, and he bounces slightly from the impact. You’re going to make him pay for making you wait. He’s still got a semi, but it won’t do. You want him at the absolute brink, begging for release. Quickly, you slip two fingers inside yourself, bringing them back out warm and slick. In the same fluid movement, you curl your palm around him, sliding down his shaft and squeezing the base just enough until you feel him throb eagerly in response. He gasps in surprise. Releasing your grip, you sit back slightly.

“Come here,” you whisper, your voice already husky.

Heartman obeys, pulling himself upright to face you, his eyes wide and questioning. You hold his gaze for a second, watching the minute movements of his face as he tries to read you. You take your other hand and with a single finger you draw a line along his collarbone, up the curve of his neck, coming to rest at the tip of his chin, which you hold in place. You tease him with a kiss.

“Lie down. Put your hands either side of your head.”

He does so as you release him, swinging his legs round and sliding himself up the bed. He draws his long, lithe legs into place, exquisite in their lean, taught musculature: strong thighs, slender, curved calves. He brings one leg up slightly as he slides it against the other in heady anticipation, his hips rolling as he makes himself comfortable. His arms are flung haphazardly around his head, the sheer blue robe caressing the tight curves of his arms and narrow torso, framed perfectly against the violent red of the sheets. You want to hold this image of him in your mind forever – caught in an expression of supplication.

Once he’s in place, he lowers himself fully, hips leaning into the soft bedding beneath, while you follow in his wake, coming to a stop as you straddle him. He moves his hands to the sides of his head, resting them on the pillows around him. A look from him as if to say, “Like this?” You nod.

Finally, you give yourself free rein to enjoy yourself. You start by taking a hand and running it right the way down his body, starting from his collarbone, over his chest, down over his lean torso and over his belly, your thumb teasing at his navel just before you come to rest clasped over the base of his erection. A gasp from him quickly melts into a sigh. He’s the best instrument in your hands. One hand still around him, you lower yourself down to kiss the soft skin below his navel, teasing him with the tip of your nose, your lips, your tongue. The heat of him glows against your face, and as you kiss the soft, tender flesh of his belly, you can feel muscles flexing deep in his abdomen. You smile, reflexively, feeling an aching heat spreading between your legs.

Slowly, excruciatingly, you draw yourself up back into your upright position, bringing your hand up with you as you do so, fingers stroking the underside of his erection while your palm is curled around the shaft. He’s astonishingly hard. You massage the tip with your thumb and you feel him quiver in your hand as he lets out a whine. His eyes are closed, forehead creased as if pain. He cries out, raises an arm, reaching towards you.

“Hands.” You say, firmly. Not yet, you think. God, you want those hands too, fuck – you need them on you – but not yet. He obeys, pushing his palm up against the soft bedrest instead. Defiant, he holds your gaze as you watch him. How is it possible for him to send these violent waves of desire rippling through you just by _looking_ at you? You can feel your resolve wavering. You return his stare, thighs still either side of his waist. You lean down and whisper something in his ear before sitting back up.

Heartman takes his free hand, and as per your instruction, starts stroking himself with deliberate slowness, not breaking eye contact. Soon enough, he picks up speed, fingers working the head, his eyes rolling shut as his head and shoulders arch back against the pillows. You run your grip over his hips and up the length of his thighs towards you, dragging your fingers hard. He’s moaning again, louder and with more urgency. He’s getting close. He’s a noisy one – but you like it. 

“Stop.” You command him with a single word. Obediently, he lets go, but not without a cry of anguish. You hold him, and you can feel his legs shaking with the effort of restraining himself. He gasps your name, writhing against the sheets in agony.

“Please –” he moans, his voice low with the pressure of holding himself back. “I need you...!”

It’s enough. You need this release now as much as he does. You lower your hips, taking him between your thighs and sliding yourself against his arousal, the pulse between your own legs beating with painful urgency. Leaning over him, rocking your hips against his, you curl your free hand around the back of his neck, whispering again in his ear. You dig your fingers in hard.

“Okay,” You say, panting, almost breathless. “Come, now.”

There’s a moment where you both fumble, awkward with each other, both out of practice, where you go to guide him into you, and in his eagerness he’s already there – all that unspent, pent-up longing making him ravenous with desire – he’s a little rougher than you expect. You cry out involuntarily, and his eyes widen in a moment of fear that he’s hurt you. Eager, he’s so eager. A little clumsy, but sincere. With a half-gasped laugh, you tell him you’re okay.

Heartman, now free to explore, runs his hands over your body, one caressing the length of your torso, and the other squeezes your ass with enough force to make you squeal. Alright, you didn’t take him for that kind of man, but if he likes the goods you’re not complaining. His face is half-buried in your neck, and he lets out a low, guttural moan that you _feel_ more than you hear as it vibrates through you. The feel of him inside you is _so_ fucking good. You tighten around him as he moves in deeper.

“Get on top,” You gasp in his ear.

He flips you with such force you almost roll off the side of the bed, but his hand clasped around your waist stops you. To his credit, he barely breaks his rhythm. Both of you are reaching your peak now, a desperate union between two bodies. He’s not even trying to hold back his pleasure, almost crying with low, desperate moans as you feel him driving himself deeper inside you. You’re _so_ close, but he’s closer. You can feel it coming with every urgent movement into you. He takes his free hand and hooks it under your leg, below the knee, pulling it up – and with the next thrust you feel him enter you fully, completely, more than you thought capable of your own body to take.

It’s enough. He cries out, his entire body arcing against yours as he comes hard into you, and as he pulls you to him in his ecstasy, his energy cascades into you – your body shudders as you come, carried by his weight on you, the feel of him inside you, the sound of his low, melodic moans in your ears – he bows his head to meet you, his face pressing into the open stretch of your neck, though you’re barely aware of him as you ride the peak, your belly flexing against his, your toes curling and uncurling in violent spasms. You’re gasping his name, but you’re barely even aware of it.

Spent, you collapse back onto the sheets, the satin damp with sweat. But you’re not letting him go yet, savouring the feeling of him so completely within you. You roll your hips against his, slowly, moaning into his mouth as you do, making sure you savour him in the aftermath. He’s kissing you again, pressing his face against yours in a post-climactic haze, running his fingers along your spine, his touch feather-light as he moves round to cradle the dip of your waist where he comes to rest, squeezing gently as you both hold each other, your body around his, his still within yours.

Eventually, you feel him stir. “You’ll have to let me go at some point,” he says, his voice thick and languid. “Though if I died now, it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.”

His heart hammers against you, slowly returning to its familiar rhythm. Reluctantly, you relent, allowing him to disentangle himself from you, missing him as soon as he does.

“Better go plug yourself back in,” you tease.

He leans over and kisses you, and you can feel him smiling as he does so.

“Well, of course. How else am I going to recharge for another round?”


End file.
